


cursed ship

by fraldariuwus (sakesword)



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Navy, Alternate Universe - Short Metodey, Fire Emblem Heroes Beach Units, M/M, Sexual Content, Speedo Lorenz, This Is STUPID, Weaselmen, idk but Acheron is an admiral
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakesword/pseuds/fraldariuwus
Summary: Acheron's crew fishes something out from the sea.
Relationships: Metodey/Acheron
Comments: 16
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purple_bookcover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_bookcover/gifts).



> Hi Purple... and other metodeyfans... and other acheronfans? I wrote this in like an hour and it's really dumb but it was fun. I hope you enjoy!

The sun beat down. It was much too hot. Acheron raised his arm, wiping the sweat from his forehead, careful not to brush against his wig and push it off. 

That would be embarrassing.

He twirled his mustache as he stepped across the deck. The plebian crew was doing their duty sufficiently enough, however…

“Reginald,” Acheron called in the meek voice that was his own.

His attendant scurried over to him, “What is it, Admiral?”

“Bring the fronds, I am roasting out here.”

“Yes, sir!” Reginald saluted.

Even though the position came with a prestigious title that would likely transition to higher status, Acheron hated being an Admiral. He wanted to sit atop a lofty hill in an even loftier castle and attempt new facial hair styles in peace while his servants fawned over him.

He also wanted more land.

Only a few days remained until they’d be off of this cursed ship—Acheron hated that he was developing his sea legs _now_ , after being sick for the majority of the journey. After retching lobster tail after lobster tail into from whence it came. At least Acheron didn’t have to eat what the crew ate. He didn’t even want to know what they ate. All Acheron knew was, he had his wine, and they had something that claimed to be rum.

Reginald and some other boy returned with fronds in hand and began to fan him. The powerful gusts caused Acheron’s mustache to flutter and tickle Acheron’s cheeks, “Softer, you fools! Did no one teach you how to properly fan a noble?”

Thankfully, Reginald was just as much of a bootlicker as Acheron was, so he adjusted his speed at the command.

Ah. Better.

Acheron planned to just stand there all day, enjoying the boys tending to him, but one of the crew had the audacity to approach him.

“This had better be important. I’m quite busy, as you can tell!” Acheron snapped.

“Admiral, there’s something you need to see.” The surly youth seemed worried.

“Fine. Show me. But make it quick.”

Acheron followed the man toward the ship’s starboard and gasped at what he saw.

A creature.

An overgrown, soggy rat.

It smelled of the sea. And something else. Something that made Acheron feel sick once more.

With a tap of his foot, the sailor rolled it over, and Acheron realized _it_ was a man.

A small man, with a yellowed streak slashing down the front of his dark, matted hair, clothed in rags. The man was coughing, and smiling, with fire in his eyes. Acheron had to look away, it was too hideous—yet he couldn't.

There was something about him.

And that’s how Reginald got the boot and became the substitute frond-wielder.

Metodey was his name. Acheron would never forget it. It reverberated in Acheron’s tiny brain.

What used to be only money, power, and castles, now was only money, power, castles, and _Metodey_. Three syllables: Me, To, Dey; they sounded like melody, and they played like one for Acheron, too.

How the sunlight reflected off of that golden streak reminded Acheron of coins, and Acheron loved coins. He also loved when Metodey snuck into the Admiral’s quarters.

“Admiral, I like your shorts,” Metodey cooed, trailing a hand up Acheron’s thigh.

“Metodey,” Acheron whimpered.

“You like when I touch you, don’t you?”

Acheron blushed, “I do.”

“Ever since you pulled me out of the water, I’m all you can think about, is that it?”

“It is.”

Something about Metodey made it impossible for Acheron to lie. Maybe it was the way he grinned whenever Acheron acted bashful, maybe it was how Metodey _knew_ it was a wig. Maybe it was how Metodey _knew_ Acheron liked being toyed with.

The delightful adrenaline that pumped through Acheron’s veins when Metodey slid his short fingers ever closer to the wig, withdrawing just as it was about to fall off. The butterflies that danced within. Oh, Acheron couldn’t get enough.

So much so Acheron neglected his duties as Admiral even further.

Only three days left, why not spend them with Metodey’s cock at the back of his throat? Why not spend them bent over luxurious sheets with wine in his belly and Metodey inside him? Why not spend them whining Metodey’s name?

It turns out, mutinies happen.

It turns out, musclebound hulks who slave away from morning to night are stronger than weaselmen.

It turns out, the crew could have done this weeks ago.

So there the two miniscule men, with miniscule skill, found themselves, floating on a piece of driftwood, one day’s sail away from shore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Land ho.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somehow writing metacheron has become a form of self-care for me?
> 
> idk don’t @ me

Acheron tried to count the days, but they couldn’t be stacked like gold coins.

The moon rose at least five times.

The sun really beat down now. Over his and Metodey’s pathetic, small bodies clinging to the splintery piece of wood.

Acheron had managed to grab hold of a jetsam frond as it floated by, but there was no way for Metodey to fan him like this. Both of their skin was crisping, raw, red and peeling. The ocean’s salt gave Metodey’s hair a rather alluring texture, like that of Lady Rhea or a delinquent youth, but not so for Acheron.

His wig was ruined.

A shambling mound of stringing yellow fibers, unevenly bleached by the punishing sun.

Acheron knew by the frayed strands that fell into his palm.

But Acheron kept the wig on, it was the only thing protecting his sensitive, pink scalp. At least his mustache was real, and still attached enough to twirl.

The water surrounding them splashed when Metodey reached beneath to cup Acheron’s ass. Acheron yelped, but relaxed into the sensation of shriveled fingers. This was all they had while they waited to drown.

“Metodey,” Acheron whined.

“Your ass is soft,” Metodey laughed. “I like your shorts.”

“I know you like them!” Acheron snapped. He’d grown fond of Metodey on the ship, but now Acheron just needed some quiet. 

The truth was, it wouldn’t be long until Acheron released his grip and let the Goddess have her way with him. In the afterlife, Acheron was guaranteed all of the frond boys he could dream of and the universe’s most enviable collection of wigs.

This was as good a time as any. Acheron lifted one finger.

Metodey noticed and teased, “Do it.”

But Acheron was a coward. He held on even tighter at Metodey’s cajoling.

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Metodey snickered. “We’re bound by fate.”

Were they?

Acheron didn’t have time to muse about destiny before Metodey teased again, shouting, “Land ho!”

Even though Metodey had a sniveling nasal voice, it startled Acheron, so close to his ear, “If you must jest, please lower your volume.”

“I’m serious,” Metodey said. “Look.”

It wasn’t a ruse, a sliver of shoreline was visible! It didn’t remotely resemble the Alliance coast, but they were _saved_.

“Paddle faster!” Acheron squeaked more than usual because his throat was quite dry from quaffing only sea water. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

Metodey swam like the damp rat he was, kicking up an erratic flurry of waves behind them. It still wasn’t fast enough for Acheron, who couldn’t assist due his hands’ preoccupation with holding his wig on.

Bodies of humans coalesced into view as they neared the shore. There were many of them on the strand, frolicking, seemingly _enjoying_ themselves. No one even turned a head to the two tiny, sunburnt weaselmen as the final wave crashed and carried them onto the beach.

Acheron spat when he brushed himself off, Metodey cackled and licked some sand off of his hand.

For a moment, Metodey and Acheron stared at one another; what _now?_

The closest were two men and two women, their clothing was nothing Acheron had ever seen a decent Fodlanese wear. It revealed far too much skin. The type of skin Acheron and Metodey showed each other in his Admiral’s quarters.

A shirtless, red-haired man with darkened glasses held two glasses of another type in his hands. They contained some greenish liquid, piled high with foodlike accoutrements. He was bringing them over toward the scantily-clad women currently being what Acheron could only assume was courted by a purple-haired man in an open, shortsleeved top and high-cut undergarments.

“This beverage is hardly suited for the nobility to imbibe, Sylvain,” a haughty voice sneered, the man with an unfortunate haircut turned to address the woman wearing a magenta-and-black sun hat. “I suppose there _is_ a commoner amongst us, however.” 

Was that… _Was that?_

Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.

“Boy!” Acheron spoke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They make me laugh. They’re so dumb


	3. metacheronmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hohoho

For one who wrapped themselves with ties to nobility as if they were the finest silks, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester certainly was sluggish to show his devotion to one of his countrymen.

Why was Lorenz gawking with the buxom woman instead of rushing over to assist Acheron? Much too long passed--though it was long enough for Acheron to secure what remained of his wig--before Lorenz even stepped forward to utter, "Acheron, could it really be you?" 

"Lorenz..." the woman said, tilting her head to the side. "Who is _this?_ "

Acheron felt small, and not only because she was taller than him.

"Go on, boy, tell her!" Acheron didn’t owe an explanation to one of purportedly common birth.

Lorenz let out an insolent sigh before he relented, "Well, Dorothea. This... man... is a minor noble in the Alliance."

“...And?” Acheron prodded.

“Whatever do you mean?” Lorenz asked, the absolute fool. Rage simmered within Acheron as Lorenz’s eyes darted all over. It was too pathetic, it would have continued endlessly without Acheron poking at the badge on his lapel, “And… an admiral.”

Wasn’t Garreg Mach an esteemed institution? 

Before Acheron could educate them himself, Metodey’s haunting tone cut through the playful sounds of the beach, though it was near a whisper, “Hey… rose guy...”

Lorenz’s expression contorted into that of utter confusion and disgust as he realized he was the one being addressed, “Hello.”

“I like your shorts,” Metodey hissed, then licked his lips.

That phrase--that phrase took Acheron back to the Admiral’s quarters, when times had been simpler between man and rat. That phrase was _theirs_.

Weakness, wobbling, toppling, darkness.

It didn’t matter that the sand was salty and coarse and that Acheron was swallowing more and more of it as he sobbed, prone on the strand. At this point, Acheron’s tears might merge with the ocean and drown them all. 

_Goddess, please._

How could Metodey do this? 

They were more undergarments than shorts, weren’t they?

“Woah, Lorenz, what’s going on?” a different voice commented over Acheron and his pitiful wailing. “Is he okay? Is this normal...?”

“I haven’t seen Acheron like this, Sylvain,” Lorenz said, “but a part of me isn’t surprised.”

Acheron couldn’t even get up to defend his honor, he attempted to whine something but only managed to choke on more sand. Crying, bawling, and wheezing, Acheron was helpless… until the warmth of a familiar stickiness soothed the turmoil within his soul. 

It was like Acheron’s heart drank a vulnerary, an offering of Metodey’s spit was the true symbol of their bond, something Acheron’s favorite former frondboy would _never_ share with the likes of Lorenz. Determined, Acheron bounded up from the earth, ready to prove his love for Metodey in front of whomever dared to observe.

The animalistic urges Acheron hadn’t been able to follow while adrift hounded him all at once, he grabbed Metodey’s waist and pulled him into a kiss. Babysoft hairs of Acheron’s bonafide mustache tickled Metodey’s upper lip until he giggled and accepted. 

The taste of sand and danger; it wasn’t enough. Metodey’s distinctive nipples were already hard when Acheron’s hands slid beneath the rag that used to be Metodey’s shirt. At the same time, Little Acheron stirred within the shorts Metodey was fond of, enticing Acheron to rub up against him.

“I’m going to throw up,” Dorothea said, and it sounded like she meant it.

“My Lord,” Lorenz said, “stop this at once! Have you no propriety?”

But Acheron couldn’t hear them over the feel of Metodey’s supple flesh and the exquisite adrenaline of his teasing affections as those daring fingers traced closer and closer to Acheron’s hairline. He couldn’t see them as his eyes were closed in ecstasy.

It was perfect, gorgeous, what songs were written about, all Acheron had ever longed for, besides every scrap of land that had ever existed in Alliance territory.

The jealous comments continued, until suddenly, a much too frigid breeze gusted over them. At first, Acheron thought the chill could be attributed to Metodey’s phenomenal prowess as a lover, but the wind only picked up. Be that as it was, nature couldn’t stop them, they were this far.

“Is that... snow?” Sylvain asked. “Ing, look, it’s like Faerghus!”

“What, Sylvain?”

Snow? Faerghus? On the beach?

Acheron’s ministrations over Metodey’s nipples slowed as he couldn’t resist surveying his surroundings.

It was snowing, it was dark. Somehow.

Unfortunately, Acheron wasn’t called the weathervane due to his understanding of meteorology.

“Yeah.” Sylvain removed his sunglasses, then opened a hand which once carried a green abomination of a beverage, catching a snowflake in his palm. “I have no idea what’s going on, but it really reminds me of home.”

“I guess so,” the woman confirmed, partaking in whatever nostalgia Sylvain was indulging in.

“Man,” Sylvain continued, “really makes me miss Fe.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t join you two on the trip,” Dorothea said.

Acheron wasn’t sure why he was still watching this asinine exchange, when Metodey could have been deep inside of him already, but just as he was about to turn back to what mattered, there was… a tinkling.

A windchime? An instrument? It was so out of place, so eerie. There was nothing natural about it like the wind, like snow.

“Look up there!” Sylvain called out, pointing toward the sky. At that, everyone couldn’t help but tilt their chins up.

“Is that a pegasus? ” Lorenz asked. 

“Pegasi aren’t red,” Ingrid informed him. “It looks more like a carriage.”

It was drawing nearer, the bell-like ringing clearer. It had to be imbued with some form of magic, tiny lights like fireflies in reds and greens studded the sides of whatever it was. A deer similar to that of House Riegan seemed to be guiding it through the sky.

It jingled. It jangled. It landed on the beach beside them. 

What the deer had been pulling rattled before a large sack was cast from it. Then, a youth clad, head-to-toe, in a matching red climbed out.

“Fuck,” the boy said.

Sylvain rubbed his eyes, then blinked, “Felix?”

The boy didn’t answer, instead he leaned over to dig through the sack, only returning his attention to them when a box wrapped with a bow was in his hands. He shoved it toward the commoner in the bikini.

“Take it,” he said, his face visibly flushed despite the dimness of the cloud-covered sky.

“Merry Christmas, Felix.” Dorothea beamed, then kissed the embarrassed boy on the cheek.

Exasperated, Acheron fell back to the ground, tugging Metodey along with him.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah..... lol
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/fraldariuwus)


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